


Wanting Normal

by Siberianskys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Curtain Fic, Dog(s), Gen, Mental Health Issues, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-04
Updated: 2009-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siberianskys/pseuds/Siberianskys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn't ask for much--hell Dean didn't ask for anything. Who was Sam to say no if his brother wanted to keep the fur ball? He was just one little dog. He couldn't possibly be that much of a nuisance could he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanting Normal

Sam felt like kicking himself for snapping at Dean. Dean who worked three jobs out in the loud, stranger-filled world so Sam could finally, after all these years, finish his undergrad and live in the first real home he could remember. Setting the paint roller in the tray of Dromedary Camel, he walked barefoot across the tarp-covered, reclaimed wood floor and stopped at arms’ length away from his brother.

"I’m sorry," Sam said, keeping his distance until the trembling in Dean’s hands lessened as much as it was going to. "I didn’t mean it. I’m just—" He was about to say tired, but stopped himself. He had no right to complain about being tired when Dean had just spent another long, hot day slaving away in Mrs. Cogan’s ostentatious garden. It was the third time in two weeks that Dean had to replant her flowerbeds because the old bat had changed her mind about the color scheme for the upcoming Home and Garden Show. For some reason that Dean refused to explain, he actually liked the crazy, old loon. Judging by some of the leftovers that Dean brought home, Sam was fairly certain that pie was somehow involved. Not only had Dean become the only guy at the garage allowed to touch her late husband’s baby, the 1948 Cadillac Convertible Coup he’d proposed to her in, but she’d somehow talked Dean into quitting his job at Auerbach's Market, a job he loved because it allowed him to work in the pre-dawn hours where he didn't have to see anyone but the delivery driver, to come work for her. But, for Sam, sending Dean home with a Labradoodle from her most recent litter was the last straw. Things were tight enough without another mouth to feed, not to mention the vet bills, the time required for training and everything else that went along with pet ownership. The little beast was staring at him with big brown eyes over the curve of Dean's elbow and wearing the same hopeful expression as his brother. Dean didn't ask for much--hell Dean didn't ask for anything. Who was Sam to say no if his brother wanted to keep the fur ball? He was just one little dog. He couldn't possibly be that much of a nuisance could he?

***

"Damn it, Chewie, drop it," Sam yelled, chasing the puppy down the stairs. He was remarkably fast considering he was dragging a shoe as big as he was. Sam stopped on the second-from-the-bottom stair, because Dean was blocking his path with a disapproving stare. "What do you expect me to do?” Sam asked. “That's the third shoe he's ruined this week."

Dean, silent as usual, reached down and scooped up the little dog with one hand. Removing the shoe from his mouth, he tossed it at Sam before turning to limp back to the couch.

Sam watched him go, wondering how he managed to get Chewie to cooperate when he didn't speak to him anymore than he did to anyone else.

***

Waking up to Chewie yapping at Dean's heels as his brother lumbered up the stairs, Sam rolled over and tried to make out the numbers on the nightstand clock. Dean had already been very late getting home from his bartending gig at the dive one town over when Sam had finally dropped off. He winced when his brother unexpectedly turned on the overhead light. He sat straight up in bed when he saw the fresh cuts and bruises standing out against Dean's sunburned, freckled and scared face. "I hope the other guy looks worse," Sam said, pushing off the covers and climbing out of the queen-sized bed. He laughed when Dean rolled his good eye and offered him a rare, broad, self-satisfied grin.

"Was it just one guy?" Sam asked, wondering just what kind of trouble Dean had stumbled into.

Before Dean gave him any sort of reply, his cell rang. "That's not the cops is it?" Sam asked as he reached for his phone, shushing Chewie.

Dean flipped him off before heading into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and his furry shadow. Sam smirked. For a guy who said bathtubs are for girls, when they were remodeling the upstairs, Dean sure spent a lot of time in Sam's bathroom.

"Winchester," Sam answered.

"Sam," the familiar voice said.

"Oh, hey Bobby."

"That idgit brother of yours finally drag his ass in?"

"Yeah, false alarm. He just staggered in all beat to hell and really pleased with himself."

"Can I have a word with him?"

"You can try."

Crawling out from under his quilt he padded over to the bathroom door and knocked. "Bobby wants to talk to you," Sam called and waited for some sort of response. When he didn't get one, he pushed open the door and took a quick peek. He couldn't help but wince. Though Dean always denied it, he'd always known that his brother was in a lot more pain than he let on, which was more than evident by how he was sprawled low in the large tub of hot water and Mr. Bubble, his mangled leg propped up on the edge. "You want the phone or should I tell him to call you back?" Sam asked.

Using his left thumb to rub his forehead just above his eye patch, Dean held out his other hand in Sam's general direction.

Realizing that his brother had no intention of moving, he grabbed a towel and dried off Dean's soap-covered hand before handing him the phone.

Dean turned his head slowly, glaring at the door then at Sam and back again.

"Whatever, dude," Sam said as he stalked out, nearly tripping over Chewie, who had suddenly decided he wanted out at the same time. He didn't know what the big deal was anyway. It wasn't like he was going to learn anything from Dean's silent side of the conversation.

"Damn it, Chewie, get the hell off my bed; I don't care where Dean lets you sleep," Sam said grabbing him by the collar and tugging the obstinate dog from his bed. Flopping down cross-wise across his bed, he stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars that Dean had painstakingly affixed to his ceiling. He'd forgotten that he'd begged for them the winter he turned 8 until he'd come home from class one afternoon to find Dean lying on his back on the makeshift scaffolding placing the last star. He thought he'd gotten used to Dean's muteness, but tonight was more proof than he wanted of just how much he'd not adjusted to life without the sound of his brother's voice. He offered Chewie his palm when he felt his brother's dog nudging his hand with his wet nose. Knowing that sending mixed messages was bad for Chewie's training he tried to resist the urge to pat the bed and call the dog back up, but failed. "Come on, Chewie, up," he said.

Needing no further encouragement, Chewie jumped up and settled himself, face nestled against Sam's belly.

Gently rubbing Chewie's ears, Sam felt himself start to doze off. No wonder Dean let Chewie sleep in the bed with him; it was peaceful and if anyone needed peaceful it was his brother. He startled awake when he felt the bed give and a warm knuckle brush his cheek.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, taking in Dean's red-rimmed eye, red nose and blotchy skin. He hadn't just been crying, but sobbing by the looks of him. "Did Bobby have bad news?" Sam watched and waited as Dean sat down on the bed, using Chewie as a buffer between them.

Clutching his hands together and letting them drop between his knees, Dean stared at the floor and let out a loud, shaky breath. "Don't be mad at me, Sammy," he said, voice hoarse.

"Dean, you can—that's great, man," Sam said clapping his brother on the back.

"I never couldn't," Dean whispered.

"What? You mean all this time?" Sam said, shooting to his feet, dislodging Chewie in the process. Looming over his brother he snarled, "You've been talking to everybody but me; is that right? Bobby, Mrs. Cogan--hell, Dean, probably even the damned dog." Sam held up his hands and backed away when Dean lifted his head and met his eyes with a cross between fear and panic on his face. As sick as the thought made Sam feel, he was somewhat relieved that at least Dean hadn't been faking everything.

"Not everybody. Just Bobby at first and then Mrs. Cogan caught me talking to her dog one afternoon," Dean said.

"At least those weird late night phone calls from Bobby make some sense now."

"You're outta here, now, huh?" Dean whispered.

Sam very slowly held out of his hands. When Dean didn't pull away he carefully took his brother's face between his palms. "Never," Sam said firmly. "I just want to understand why you'd do such a thing."

"Normal," Dean said.

"What?"

"All that grief I'd give you about wanting normal—"

"Safe, Dean, I wanted us to be safe. How did that always get twisted into normal?"

"Semantics, Sammy."

"Okay, whatever. Just tell me."

"Lucifer was dead, the apocalypse adverted, so what next?"

"Yeah?" Sam asked slowly.

"All those years ago, Dad had it right, whether he knew it or not. All I ever wanted was to be a family, have a home. I just didn't want to talk it to death. I wanted to move on, have the past over and done with. I learned when I was four-years-old the best way to avoid what you didn't want to think about was to shut-up and not talk about it. If I couldn't talk about it, everybody else stopped talking about it, too."

"And I want to talk everything to death," Sam finished for him.

"Nag, nag, nag," Dean smirked.

Sam pushed Chewie out of the way and sat down next to his brother, so close their hips and legs touched. Swinging his arm companionably around Dean's neck, he rested their heads together.

"Too quiet," Dean groused.

"Huh?"

"Dude, I can hear you thinking."

"Should I start calling you ‘psychic boy’?" Sam asked.

"Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam said and smiled.

The End


End file.
